


The Obey Me Boys as RPG Bosses: Revolution

by indiavolowetrust



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blood, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Crossdressing, Romance, Violence, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27887962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust
Summary: You are the true heir to the noble house of Amboise. After you are framed for your father's death, you and your loyal maid are forced to escape from the estate and clear your name -- or die trying.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

The art of war has long branded itself into your very sinews. Your sword threatens to crack, your muscles tremble beneath the strain, the hot midday sun bears down upon you -- but you will not yield. Father has taught you much too well for you to do so. The knight before you is nothing more than the product of his teachings, after all, and it would be simply unthinkable to expect kindness from one’s opponent on the battlefield. Better to suffer a hard lesson and a few broken fingers here than be beheaded later. While this may only be mere training for the squires and other knights -- a spectacle to Father and the visiting official from the capital, certainly -- you know very well the weight that rests upon your shoulders.

As the true heir of the house of Amboise, failure is simply unacceptable.

It takes you less than a moment for you to turn on the ball of your foot, redirecting your opponent’s force elsewhere. Then it is only a matter of second nature: a quick strike forces his knees to buckle, another disarms him, and a final stance places you in the perfect position to incapacitate him. You’ve pulled off quite the choice riposte -- which is expected, of course. No descendant of the house of Amboise can truly claim the namesake without formidable martial prowess.

The roar of cheers and applause from the squires and onlookers only further impresses the fact.

 _Father should be pleased,_ you think to yourself, searching the crowd for his visage. Your father is not quite unsmiling. A good sign. _Surely he is. He must be._

“I do believe this is your victory,” says Sir Michael. You lend him a free hand, and he takes it gratefully as he brings himself to his feet. “You’ve become quite the formidable swordswoman, milady.”

You are merely fulfilling your duties, you tell him. You begin to weave through the chaos around you, avoiding the clashing blades and fired arrows. Both he and Father are excellent instructors, and you would not be able to truly consider yourself part of the _noblesse d'épée_ otherwise. It would be unfitting. 

He grins broadly beneath the shadow of his helm, walking in step beside you. “Perhaps you should challenge those cousins of yours to duels for your hand, then!” he remarks in a jesting manner. “It’ll certainly discourage them from marriage talks. Send them running back to their estates with their tails between their legs, milady, and they’ll never see themselves fit to stand by your side.”

As lovely as that you would be, you are no longer a child. Until Father sends you to ride south and quell the rebellion, you inform Sir Michael, discussions of diplomatic marriages will be an inevitable facet of your life.

“A pity, that.” 

He need not fret, you reassure him. Father will see the error in his judgment the moment you strike down the impudent rebels. The head of a leader or two should suffice.

Sir Michael begins to unclasp his gambeson as the both of you near the edges of the training grounds, preparing to hand it off to a squire, and it is mere moments before you reach the open storehouse of supplies. A new squire -- you would presume, as you’ve noticed quite the influx in new faces -- quickly presses a canteen of water into your hands. Sir Michael is quiet for a moment, if only to refresh himself. To observe the state of the midday training, perhaps. Your attendants have yet to escort you from the training grounds. The prying eyes that had plagued you during your small match between you and your instructor are nowhere to be found.

A small respite, this. For a few moments, you can almost bring yourself to believe that this is an ordinary summer’s day. The servants whisper neither their doubts nor their utmost praise of your capabilities. The knights do not lament your late mother’s failure to produce a son. You do not discern the blame and regret crossing your father’s gaze when he looks upon you.

You are merely eight years of age again for a moment, and you have yet to even wield a sword.

* * *

Ribbons of tallow run down the candlestick, the meager remnants pooling into the dish below. It is clearly the mark of a particularly forgetful maid, but it is one that you will overlook, just as you have time and time again. Long shadows meld with the moonlight that spills through the windows. A pleasant, rosy fragrance fills the air. The hands that scrub away at your back and the nape of your neck are gentle, perhaps even hesitant -- and it is only after a roll of your shoulders that your handmaid puts a bit more force into her efforts to wash you. You bite down a gasp of pain.

“My apologies, milady, I didn’t mean to --”

It’s alright, really. You’ll have to endure something much worse than a maid washing you too roughly in the coming months. Besides that, lacerations and bruises and whatnot are all an inevitable part of sparring -- especially against one as decorated as Sir Michael. While he may be lame and retired now, his grasp of swordplay and strategy is no less sharp than it was when he was part of the king’s personal guard. Were it not for the injury that plagues him now, you would have been completely outmatched.

“You speak as if you’ve little in the way of swordplay yourself.” Your handmaid’s touch disappears, and it is only after a moment that she bids you to rest your neck against the rim of the bathtub. You close your eyes as she begins to run a comb through your locks. “You looked quite dashing yourself, milady. A bit like a -- ah, what’s the word --”

A knight in shining armor?

“Yes, that’s it! A knight in shining armor,” she echoes. “Why, given all the times you’ve saved me from the head maid, I wager that you could be mine.”

You point out that you wouldn’t have to be her knight in shining armor if she didn’t take naps all the time. That, and if she weren’t caught explicitly sleeping on the job.

Belle offers you a sheepish grin. “But it is what drew you to me, isn’t it? If you hadn’t caught her scolding me, who would help you bathe every night? Who would patch your wounds?”

Another maid.

“That’s -- milady, but --”

You ruffle her hair with a dripping hand, both quieting and teasing her. There’s little chance she would ever be replaced, you reassure her, seeing as she’s one of the only maids that’s been able to tend to you without reflexively recoiling from the scarred state of your body. Your mouth quirks into a smile, and your eyes flutter open just in time to see her cheeks flush in embarrassment.

She’s always been a rather strange creature, this one. Timid, lazy, and unmannerly -- so much so that it makes you wonder just how she was accepted here as a maid, much less your personal handmaid. Connections through her family, perhaps? A random choice out of a pool of applicants? Father has had less time to handle the affairs of the estate, given his efforts to crush the rebellion in the southern regions of the rebellion. You can’t imagine that he would give the appointment of your personal maid anything more than a passing thought.

 _Then again,_ you muse as you study her features, _it is possible that she was chosen on looks alone._

White skin, dark hair, and eyes so blue that they nearly appear violet. Soft, unblemished hands, thick lashes that sweep over slight cheekbones, and a rather defenseless, gentle air about her. If someone were to design the most vulnerable, sympathetic creature possible, you imagine that she would be the result. While she is rather willowy and narrow for someone her age -- she has just turned eighteen, if you remember correctly -- a single glimpse is enough to hint at the beauty she will become once she truly matures. She has already had quite the number of growth spurts lately in the way of height. The side effect of her constant habit of napping, you would imagine.

“I did mean it when I said you looked dashing in that match,” she says when she draws a washcloth over your arms, passing gently over the newer wounds. “Being given the epithet of the blade of Amboise truly does suit you well, milady. Surely even the duke was pleased.”

If only. There’s much to improve in your swordsmanship, even if pressing the offensive has brought you this far. The only one who complimented you was the visiting official from that Father brought with him. If you were a man, you would have made a fine addition to the king’s personal circle of knights. Boris, if you can recall -- no, that wasn’t it. Bartolomé? Baudouin?

Belle draws the cloth away from you once more, wringing it into a bucket behind you. “Oh, they’re all the same, anyway,” she remarks. “Those silver-tongued fops are nearly identical nowadays.”

Barbatos, you muse aloud. Barbatos, that was his name.

The bucket clatters loudly from behind you, the sound of spilt water accompanying it. It is enough to snuff out the candle, and it is but a moment until you and Belle are plunged into shadow. You can only discern the washcloth when your eyes adjust, the towel held in a white-knuckled grip. Her expression --

“Please forgive my clumsiness, milady. It would appear that my fatigue is quite severe.” Her hand gently places your neck back onto the rim of the tub before you can catch another glimpse of her. She clears her throat. “Of course, such a man was taken with your performance. I’ve yet to see another knight that hasn’t paled in comparison to your skills.”

It wasn’t anything like that, you assure her. He had only meant to comment on the certainty and fire with which you wielded your blade, despite your obvious amiability with Sir Michael. Many betrayed soldiers of the empire have difficulty executing their own comrades.

Put differently, your loyalty and devotion for the good of the kingdom is utterly unmatched.

“But could you bring yourself to do it, truly?”

Do what?

Belle’s fingers skirt over your heart, working the suds into your marred skin. “To execute your own comrades for the good of the kingdom,” she specifies. “If someone were to betray you, could you bring yourself to slay them with your own hands?”

Of course, you tell her. Without a second thought.

“... I see. I’m glad.”

* * *

Clouds of milk burst inside the teacup, painting the chamomile tea a pleasant, milky chartreuse. It is enough to draw your attention away from your book. Belle merely smiles at you in the mirror when you give her a questioning glance. It is quite late, after all. She needn’t go this far for your sake.

“You are fatigued, are you not?”

You are, but --

“Then I simply insist!” She nudges the tea a bit closer to your hands, taking a break away from combing your hair. “You’ve had quite the day, milady. It pains me so to see you in such a worn state.”

You sigh. Belle regards you with round, pleading eyes before drawing a sugar cube from a silver tin. A rare treat. It dissolves immediately upon being dropped into the teacup, the perfectly snow-white confection sweetening the tea, and then you are taking a single sip. Belle pouts. You take another. Another, another, and another -- until the whole teacup is drained, your decision to humor her whims settling at the bottom of your stomach. It is pleasant, at least. Calming.

“The flavor was to your liking, I see.”

She does know that she won’t have such power over you forever, does she not? She’s nearly your height now and only a year younger than you, so it would do her well not to expect such coddling in the future. Charming as she is, Belle has little in the way of manners.

“Oh, but I’m still here, am I not?” You meet Belle’s gaze in the mirror when she reaches for the candle, meaning to guide you towards your bed. The hours have passed much more quickly than you had expected, as it would seem. “Milady is simply too kind.”

* * *

Your eyes flutter open in the darkness. A cold sweat trickles down the nape of your neck. When was it that you fell asleep? You find yourself wildly searching your bedroom as you try to piece together your memories. There was the customary diner with Barbatos, the official from the capital. Your father had planned to retire for the night after more consultation with him. Belle had helped you bathe, and then she had proffered you a cup of tea whilst tending to you afterwards. But when had you fallen --

A sudden, raucous crash draws you out of your thoughts, the sound itself all but shaking the walls of the estate. Yet there is no clamor of servants. No pages, no handmaidens, and certainly no guards. Your vision swims when you force yourself away from your bed, your limbs akin to lead. The silence is deafening.

 _Father’s study,_ you realize. _It came from Father’s study, did it not?_


	2. [Barbatos, the Assassin]

Moonlight is spilt upon the gruesome scene. The remnants of what must have once been wine glasses and a bottle litter the wooden floor. Wine accompanies it, painting the chamber even more sanguine. But where does the trail of spilt wine end, and where does the pool of blood begin? How could such a scene -- broken chairs, upturned tables, and a fallen bookshelves -- occur without at least one page or handmaid coming to investigate the clamor? Father typically has guards posted at nearly every corner of the estate. Where on earth could they have gone off to? And Father -- Father is --

You can only watch as the dagger is ripped out of Father’s body, the act forcing a gurgling cry from his throat. A moment, and Father slumps to the floor. Another moment, and the murderer simply lingers over his corpse in the scant light. You can’t quite bring yourself to scream.

Yet it is only when the killer regards you that fear truly makes itself known.

_ Barbatos, _ you recognize.

His smile is cordial. His white gloves are stained with that horrid, violent hue. His composure is no different from when he had greeted you and your father at dinner, inscrutable as he is, but it is the intensity of his gaze that petrifies you. This is a man who detests your very existence. This is a man who -- as he flicks his dagger free of blood, levels it towards you, and stands in the shadows of the moonlit chamber -- would love nothing more than to cut you down where you stand.

Which he very well could, given the fact that you are completely unarmed.

“And here I was, hoping that the dog of the estate was asleep. I spoke too soon.” The assassin sighs and presses a hand to his temple, as if expressing disappointment over some banal matter. The act leaves his visage bloodstained. “More’s the pity. Your talent with the sword truly was marvelous. Were you anything but a noble hound, we would have loved to recruit you into our ranks.”

Your mouth is dry, your breath hitched in your throat. Whose ranks? Why has he done this? Does he intend to murder you, just as he has slain your father?

A quirk of his mouth. “Murder you? Why, you speak as if you harbor little guilt yourself.”

Little guilt? You can’t help but feel some part of yourself snap, despite the horror. What does he, a murderer, know of --

“Certainly the hound of Amboise cannot be so dense as to be ignorant of its crimes,” he spits. “One murder will have saved the lives of many, guiltless dog. I know very well what your father planned for you. Cutting you down here and now would be nothing less than a public service.”

It is only then that the assassin -- Barbatos, if that even is his real name -- assumes a dueling stance. He is wholly prepared to make good on his word, evidently. Your limbs still bear that odd, weighty sensation, as if both your conscience and your body have been pulled out of a fog. And so you find yourself surveying your surroundings.

Simply running off and attempting to lock the door behind you would be all but useless. The door locks from the inside, and your body feels much too leaden for you to have any confidence in your ability to run. The toppled chair before you is much too small and flimsy for you to use as a shield. The decorative spears and swords that have been mounted to the wall may be suitable, yes, but there is the matter of them being anchored to the wall. If only you had a bit more time -- no, if only you had a second more, you would be able to wrench a sword away from its bearings.

But there is no such moment of opportunity. The assassin lunges towards you before you can even take one step towards the anchored weapons, perhaps sensing your intent, and you are wholly aware from experience just how quickly that blade will reach your abdomen. You will be skewed to the wall within moments, joining the collection of anchored blades. Your corpse will ruin the wooden flooring below you, just as your father’s had. The rush of air -- of the blade to bring you to your end -- arrives much more quickly than you had expected.

And yet there is no piercing of your flesh. The rush of air reaches a crescendo with the magnificent sound of steel against steel, and you turn to see the assassin staggering back, a gloved hand pressed to his temple. Blood runs freely from the wound on his skull.

“Milady!”

_ Belle? _

The world spins. You blink to see Belle’s teary expression above you. “Milady, how did you -- you shouldn’t be awake!” she cries, crushing you with her slight arms. Belle does her best to help you up onto your feet, but that same inexplicable drowsiness hits you once more. “Please forgive my brazenness.”

A bitter laugh cuts her off, drawing her attention away. You feel your body propped up gently against the wall. Your vision blurs, that strange fog dulling your senses.

You blink, and suddenly there is only the glint of silver.  _ Her serving tray, _ you think to yourself.  _ What is she --  _

“So the noble hound has a dog of her own now, does she?” The assassin’s tone, sardonic and mocking, cuts through the haze. There is the scrape of steel against steel. “Unsubstantial letters, little correspondence, no signals -- we thought you perished, really. I should’ve visited earlier. You’ve long outlived your usefulness, I see.”

You blink, and your eyes latch onto the sight of your father bleeding haplessly onto the mahogany. His eyes are glassy. Your hands twitch when you try to reach for him. Belle is -- no, that would simply be impossible. Belle is but a harmless, unmannerly, and simple handmaid. Only in your wildest dreams would she be able to fend off an assassin single-handedly with only a serving tray. 

You try to tell her to escape, to run far away from here. The words that leave your lips feel distant.

You blink again, and you feel the cold guard of a sword against your palm. The mounted weapon must have fallen off the wall sometime during the night, you presume, although you cannot imagine why. A harsh yank with a weighty, almost useless arm releases it from its bonds. A relief, that. Sluggish as you are at the moment, you’re at least capable of that. The assassin --

Your eyes widen.  _ The assassin. _

“I’m disappointed in you,” he says. You feel his gaze lingering on your form as you force yourself up with the sword, jamming the blade into the wooden floor. “Never expected you to be so sloppy in your technique. Were you afraid the drug would be too strong for her? Come now, Belph --”

**“Speak another word and I shall cut out your tongue!”**

The suddenness of Belle’s outburst is enough to make an opening. It takes you less than a moment to meet the assassin’s blade with your own sword, blocking an attack that would have surely struck down your handmaid. Years of punishment and training set upon you by Sir Michael and your own father have not gone to waste. While you cannot quite discern the enemy before you clearly -- your vision is a blurry, incoherent mess -- it is your sheer determination that propels you forward. You kick his legs out from under him, hoping to earn another moment of opportunity, but your lacking vision prevents you from executing a final blow.

No matter. You brandish your blade, preparing to riposte the assassin’s next attack. Regardless of whether or not you are truly able to fend off your enemy, you cannot possibly allow someone to die protecting you -- especially not one as dear and harmless as your handmaid. Whatever ill intent this assassin has is meant to be inflicted on you, not her. She is innocent.

“Milady, please --”

She should get up and run while she can, you advise. While you are quite capable, you can’t promise that you’ll be able to protect her if she just dallies behind you. It is part of the creed of the  _ noblesse d'épée _ to protect the loyal and the innocent. As she serves you, you cannot possibly allow her to die in your stead.

Your vision swims, your legs threatening to collapse. Even through the haze, you can discern the bloodied, hateful gaze of the assassin.

* * *

_ You are fighting [Barbatos, the Assassin]. _

**Objective: Protect Belle. Each quick time event (QTE) has only one correct option for predicting the [Barbatos, the Assassin]’s attacks.**


	3. [Beelzebub's Guild]

The water that rushes past your lips is cold and sweet. Belle presses the metal flask to your mouth gently, intending for you to drink in a slow manner, but you’re much too impatient and parched. A mistake on your part, that. You are left coughing and sputtering out what precious water that you’ve managed to take in, your hands clutching your sides reflexively. While both your head and abdomen feel as if they’ve been done in by a hammer, it is the horrid, weighty feeling at the bottom of your stomach that pains you the most. Aside from that, the morning sun is much too bright, the calls of the forest birds echo in your head with the grace of a rampaging steed, and even the burble of the nearby stream leaves your ears ringing.

Belle dabs away the extra water from your cheek. “Please wait a moment, milady,” she says, her apologetic smile barely within focus. You feel her beginning to stand. “I’ll fill the flask once more so --”

You catch her hand before she can leave. There’s no need for her to do that for you, you tell her. She should be worrying about herself first. It’ll probably be some time before you fully recover from the events of last night.

“Mayhaps.”

She’s less hearty than you are, you insist. She needs it more than you do.

Belle lingers, perhaps considering whether or not to refute your words, but it only takes her a moment to resign. “Allow me to at least help you dress, then. I have -- well, I acquired these from a nearby village.”

Pilfered, she means to say. There’s little need to skirt around the topic. The both of you are -- no, that’s not quite correct. You are the only one who needs to stay out of the public eye at the moment, given the events of last night.

 _Aside from that,_ you think to yourself, _there’s also little need for Belle to still serve me in these circumstances. If I were her, I would have --_

You let out a hiss of pain when Belle’s fingers skirt over a particularly tender spot on your collar bone. The thin, ruined cloth of your nightgown does little to shield you from the rough ground when you instinctively recoil, but Belle reaches for you once more. One hand at your waist, the other working gingerly to peel off the tattered remnants of your nightgown. While the wounds have stopped bleeding, it is no less unpleasant.

It’s pathetic, really, to be treated in such a gentle manner when you could barely defend her. Father was right about you. For all the promise you showed on the training grounds, it meant nothing in the face of true danger.

Last night’s events piece themselves together like a nightmare. That snake of an assassin, Barbatos. Belle’s foolhardy decision to intervene, and her even more brazen decision to stand her ground. Your sheer willpower had allowed you to meet his blade again and again in an attempt to draw him away from Belle, luring him towards one of Father’s many stained windows in his study, but it had only taken the split second of a mistake for the assassin to cut through the thin fabric of your nightgown. And then he was gone, the guards of the estate had finally arrived, and your leaden body had stood over your father’s corpse. The look of betrayal on Sir Michael’s face had managed to brand itself into your memories, in spite of your stupor. The sword in your hands was stained with blood that did not belong to your kin.

 _Father is dead,_ you remind yourself, although you cannot quite believe the words just yet. _Father is dead, and surely Sir Michael and the other knights must have thought he had died by my hand. Surely the rebels cannot have such influence so far in the north. Who would order such a horrid deed to be executed? Why?_

You remember little after that. Coherently, that is. Shattered glass, dark tunnels, and the sensation of brambles cutting into your flesh. The distant glow of torches. Belle had -- she had carried you through the servant passageways, hadn’t she? Perhaps all those naps and slacking off had finally done her some good.

Something cold and slippery is pressed to your abdomen, making you flinch. Belle regards you with something like guilt.

“My apologies, milady,” she stammers. Her cheeks flush, her gaze drawn elsewhere. “It’s important that we treat your wounds before they become infected. The vetements I managed to pilfer should be -- they won’t be so tight as to cause discomfort.”

If it weren’t for her, you’re sure you wouldn’t have even been able to escape from the estate. You are merely grateful that she is by your side, and you tell her as much. There’s no need for her to apologize for anything.

“It was because I couldn’t protect you that milady was so gravely injured,” she counters. “If I didn’t give --”

You give her a lighthearted flick on the nose, despite the situation. A master should protect her subjects just as much as her subjects serve her, and the service that she did unto you is enough to warrant your protection for a lifetime. You will protect her. Whatever strife comes your way, you will not fail her as miserably as you have failed your own kin.

* * *

“I’ll hold you to that, milady.”

* * *

It is only expected that the villages and townships further away from your father’s estate would be so bawdy. The township is bustling, bright, and merry -- so much so that you are nearly able to forget your dire circumstances. Children weave in and out of crowds, merchants advertise their wares on the streets, and peasant girls push bundles of flowers into the hands of passersby. Forges resound the clamor of hammers and the grinding of wheels, and the stalls of farriers are all but filled to the brim with horses and humans alike. Were this any other day, you would have strolled through the town square without a second thought.

But that would be a foolhardy choice. You find yourself staring at a poster plastered to one of the township’s many stone walls, your fingers trembling beneath your pilfered cloak. You have half a mind to tear it off.

AMBOISE NOBLE MURDERS OWN FATHER IN SUSPECTED COUP, it reads. A crude sketch has been unmistakably drawn in your likeness. LAST SEEN WITH MAIDSERVANT ACCOMPLICE. WANTED FOR TREASON, CONSPIRACY, AND MULTIPLE COUNTS OF MURDER. COMPENSATION OF --

Fingers slip over yours, stopping you just shy of touching the poster. It is enough to wrench you back into the present. Belle clasps both of her hands around yours, silently shaking her head. Her lips form around soundless words. You hear the telltale clamor of town guards only a moment later.

 _Not safe here,_ she says. _Come._

* * *

The ale is so watered down and bitter that you’re unsure if it can truly be considered ale, but you gulp it down anyway. It would be odd, you suppose, if the other rowdy patrons were to see another patron with such a different demeanor. The barmaid smiles when she fills your tankard once more -- a rather tired, piteous smile -- and you do your best to return it. By the looks of it, the tavern is more akin to a seedy, rather gluttonous guild of some sort. A guild of thieves, perhaps? A center for information brokers? Belle had brought you here to gather information, after all. Whatever the case may be, the tavern is filled to the brim with all sorts of people that Father would have forbidden from ever entering his estate. The unsavory, the too charming, and the ravenous all gather here.

 _And they’re all armed,_ you note, drawing your hood a bit more over your head. Your gaze lingers on a well-loved pair of swords strapped to a young man’s hip, his companions equally outfitted with such weapons. Almost as if they anticipate some disturbance.

It is enough to make you realize just how little you had known of your personal handmaid, much to your frustration. While her obvious familiarity with the place had allowed the both of you to escape the patrolling town guards, you can’t help but worry. What kind of life did she lead before being employed in Father’s estate? How could such a lazy, sleep-addled maid be so accustomed to such an environment? And when was it that her delicate features took on that edge?

“Little out of place here, aren’t you?”

You look up to see the sullen barmaid hovering over you, her pitcher of ale at the ready. You hadn’t realized just how quickly you had drained the tankard. Yet another silver coin placed onto the counter -- Belle’s silver, much to your shame -- prompts her to fill your tankard once more. While you aren’t particularly willing to engage in conversation, the sensation of your gaze boring into your skull forces you to respond.

You thought you had done well to hide your discomfort, really. How could she tell? You ask her as much, and she only lets out a raucous laugh in response.

“No one who frequents this quarter sits all polite-like, girl. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you were one of those feathered nobles prancing about in the capital.” The barmaid casts her gaze over the other patrons for a moment before turning her attention back onto you. A flicker of concern flashes across her wrinkled visage. “Bounty hunters, glory-seekers, critics of the crown and the whole damned kingdom -- that’s what makes up our clientele, girl. If you’re waiting for someone here, you might as well forget it. Someone with a face like yours doesn’t need this sort of life.”

While you appreciate her concern, you can’t quite leave just yet. The person for whom you wait is not someone that you could ever abandon. You just need to wait for a bit, that’s all.

“Then --” she sighs, brows knitting together, “-- take my advice and leave quickly. That hunter is on the lookout for someone with your kind of face, I think. Something about --”

A deafening crash interrupts the sullen barmaid -- as well as everyone else in the tavern, it seems. A shard of wood lands at your feet. A murmur erupts in the tavern, the seeds of gossip taking root, and you can already see the beginnings of a crowd starting to form. More than a few patrons press their hands to their sword hilts. A select few begin to make their way towards the door. You almost feel compelled to do the same, given the situation.

Yet it is the horrified expression on the barmaid’s visage that spurs you into action. You find yourself pushing past armed men and curious onlookers as you head towards the center of the tavern.

The white skin of her cheek already shows the beginning of a bruise. A deep laceration sits above it. Despite how painful the blow must have been -- it did send her crashing into the floor, after all -- Belle seems to be completely unperturbed. Her glare burns into the cloaked man before her as she moves to stand. Her delicate hand swipes across her cheek, flicking the blood away, and you watch with disbelief as the cloaked man reaches to his side. He surely means to draw a sword.

 _Against a helpless girl, no less,_ you can’t help but think. Your sense of justice screams at you to jump into the fray, to protect Belle with all you can -- but you know that you shouldn’t. Not yet. 

The strangeness of this place had occurred to you some moments ago. Nearly every patron here bears the symbol of a golden beetle somewhere on their person. A tattooed wrist revealed by the brush of a sleeve. A harmless cloak brooch cast in gold. A tassel attached to the beginning of a hilt. And then there is the matter of the palpable tension of the room. The unmarked patrons have left, leaving only those with that peculiar symbol. Their intent has become all too obvious.

This is a den of gluttonous, lawless scoundrels. A criminal’s guild. The best place to gather information about the assassination of a nobleman discreetly, of course, but an unsafe place nonetheless.

“Orders say I can’t let anyone in. Explicit orders, might I add.” The cloaked man keeps his hand hovering over his side, his gaze meeting Belle’s with equal ferocity. A frown mars his features. “Leave this place at once.”

“It is absolutely imperative that I see the guild master today. I take no orders from rabble.”

His scowl deepens. “Rabble? Hah! And what does that make you in that ridiculous get-up?” he snarls. His cloak lifts, and your eyes widen as you read the action. “Why, just because the both of you are --”

Your hand draws out the sword of the man beside you, and you step quickly into the open center. The cloaked man’s surprise is reflected in the sword when you block his blade, startling him just enough for him to step backwards. A choice kick to his knee forces him to the ground, and another sends him flying into the table behind him. It collapses with a thunderous crack.

Belle only stares at you wide-eyed when you offer her a glance. “Milady!” she cries. “You shouldn’t have --”

“That’s … her, innit?” murmurs one patron in the crowd, the voice just barely audible. You freeze. “That noblewoman?”

“Must be. She’s supposed to be mighty fine with a sword.”

“And that face!” pipes up another. “She’s one of those Amboise bastards!”

You reach for the hood of your cloak, only to realize too late that it has fallen. You prepare for an all-out brawl.

The most physically intimidating man you’ve ever seen stands before the cloaked man by the time you regard him once more. The guild master, you assume. A bitten piece of cured meat sits in his hands -- the remnant of an obviously interrupted meal -- and he merely chews thoughtfully for a moment. Silence settles over the tavern once more, thick and impenetrable. He regards you with an inscrutable expression. You can’t help but stare back.

He strikes you as oddly familiar. His hair is so red that it nearly looks orange, the locks shorn in a short, practical style. His eyes are so blue that they appear violet. There is something about the slope of his nose, you think. Something about the point of his chin, the set of his jaw, the shape of his brow -- or perhaps you are only seeing things. That would be a much more verifiable explanation, given the recent events.

“All of them,” he says.

… What? You merely echo his words back at him, asking for the meaning.

“Best all of them, and you’re invited to dine with me,” says the redheaded guild master. “Roasted boar isn’t very good when it’s cooled, so I advise you to hurry. I’ll be waiting.”

The cloaked man looks up at the guild master, confused. “But they’re --”

“Oh, that’s right. Belphie needs something, too.”

_Belphie?_

Belle catches a sheathed dagger tossed her way before you can blink, fumbling with the hilt, and you watch as the guildmaster disappears back into the crowd, A feat, considering his size. You look around to see equally bewildered patrons surrounding you. While they do hesitate, you can see all manner of weapons in the crowd. Swords, maces, staves. An axe here and there. They seem to be waiting for the cloaked man’s signal.

You warn Belle to stay close, ushering her behind you. You won’t be able to protect her if she strays too far.

It looks like there’s only one way out of this.

* * *

_You are fighting [Beelzebub’s Guild]._

**Objective: Defeat [Beelzebub’s Guild] within the five minute time limit.**


	4. [Asmodeus, the Courtesan]

While your meals at the Amboise estate had never been lacking, they are truly dwarfed by the sheer mass and array of dishes that sit before you now. Shortcrust pies are stuffed with spiced pigeon and vegetables, a number of aged cheeses sit beside crusty bread, and what you believe to be poultry is laden in a thick, cream-based sauce. Slices of salted beef and smoked pork have been arranged on a wooden platter. Turnips, parsnips, and potatoes have been roasted in mutton fat. Apples and chestnuts lay beside jars of honey. More than a few bottles of spiced wine have been uncorked.

While you would normally declare it to be the very image of gluttony -- you cannot imagine how even three people can finish so much food at once -- the guildmaster seems to have little qualms about inhaling the spread of dishes. By comparison, you and Belle have eaten little to nothing.

You steal a glance towards her, your gaze lingering on her bruised cheek. A pang of guilt strikes you at that. If it weren’t for you, she would not have been injured so. If you were at least adequate, she wouldn’t look so exhausted and haggard.

 _From a maid taking naps on a windowsill to a girl fighting for her life._ You pick at the slice of roasted boar in front of you, pushing it into the boiled potatoes. _No wonder her fatigue weighs upon her so greatly._

Yet you can’t deny that you are grateful for her aid. Her decision to simply hurl the sheathed dagger at the cloaked man’s face had bought you enough time to render more than a few patrons unconscious, and her rather unorthodox defensive abilities had given the opportunity to weave in your attacks in the chaos. Chairs had acted as bludgeoning tools, overturned tables became shields, and you recall more than a few stools being repurposed into blunt spears. Quite like an ox, if you were to compare her to any beast. A lithe, lazy ox.

“Is it not to your liking?”

The question snaps you away from your thoughts. You immediately reassure the guildmaster -- Beelzebub, as he had introduced himself -- that you truly do enjoy his hospitality. Fighting dozens of men at once to sitting down for a meal was a strain on your appetite.

Beelzebub nods sympathetically. “Then let us begin,” he says, putting down a roasted boar’s leg. It meets the table with a weighty thump. “Appointments are usually made before discussion and preferably after a meal. I will make an exception this time, as the one who seeks my aid is --”

“So wholly unmatched with the blade,” Belle finishes for him, stabbing the pigeon-laden pie with the tines of her fork.

Beelzebub blinks. “Yes. Of course.”

There’s no use skirting around the topic as to who you are and why exactly you are here. You are the famed noblewoman who supposedly committed patricide, you inform him, and you would like information that may help in clearing your name. A list of city officials who come and go through your father’s lands, for example. Should he provide this, you shall compensate him with no less than three chests of silver once you regain your position.

“I do not steal from penny-pinching nobles.”

You fluster. The house of Amboise may be mostly composed of low-ranked nobles and knights, but his service would be worth the price.

“My guild may be composed of mostly thieves and bounty hunters, but we still have our pride.” He reaches over to the spiced wine, and in moments both you and Belle’s tankards are filled with the blood-red drink. “Consider it an act of goodwill.”

* * *

The room that the Beelzebub had offered to the both of you is more of an unused storage space than an actual room. A single bed preoccupies a corner, looking every bit as comfortable as cobblestone. You’re surprised to see that the sheets aren’t particularly moth-eaten. The only source of illumination is the moonlight that has spilt through the glass and sparse curtains, and you spot a wash basin beside the bed. A good thing, that. It would likely be best for that wound on your abdomen and Belle’s lacerations to be checked and treated before the night’s end.

 _Better this than outside._ You attempt to quell that spoilt, bourgeoisie part of your conscience. _It’ll be easier to protect her in a place like this, anyhow._

Well, you say as you turn to Belle with the most reassuring smile you can muster, shall the both of you start tending to your wounds? If you start now, the both of you will have plenty of time to rest.

“As you wish, milady,” she says as she fishes out the ointment. “Just allow me to --”

You take it from her, forcing her to pause. Yours has already been treated, and seeing how little ointment you have, she is currently the priority. You’ll tend to her first before checking your own.

“‘Tis but a scratch on my cheek, nothing more,” she protests. “Yours is much more severe, and you are still the heiress.”

Then that means she is still your servant and therefore your charge. It is your fault that she’s gotten tangled up in this mess, after all, and the both of you are currently fugitives. You promised to protect her, didn’t you?

“That you did, milady.”

Then she should stop protesting and allow you to serve her for once.

And so it is with some effort that she is convinced to sit on the side of the bed, her fingers wringing themselves together. She flinches when your fingers brush against her temple, even over her curtain of dark hair, and you frown when you pull the locks away. The skin there is a blistered red, her delicate cheekbone beneath bearing a rather unsightly bruise. Belle should have made a fuss about it earlier, honestly. Why didn’t she? You ask her as much, and her face flushes.

“I … thought little of it.”

She shouldn’t hold herself in such little regard, you say. You’re not so inexperienced with treating wounds that you’ll hurt her. A gentle poke on the nose makes her pout rather petulantly, and it is but a moment until you are gently pressing a damp washcloth to the wound. Thankfully, there looks to be no sign of infection. Her cheeks manage to flush an even deeper shade of red, a testament to her embarrassment, and yet --

Your touch remains a moment too long. And yet you can’t help but study her.

When was it that she became so lovely? When was it that her beauty changed into something beyond mere comeliness? Then again, perhaps you have always known. Her features would look absolutely breathtaking on any man or woman -- or neither, now that you think about it. You find that you are drawn irrevocably to the delicate bridge of her nose, the sweep of her eyelashes, and the subdued yet sharp line of her jaw. Her skin seems to reflect the moonlight spilt upon it. The locks of her dark hair are softer than the finest silk. When your gaze lingers upon her rosy lips, you wonder what it would be like to taste it. To press her down, drink her in, and steal wonderful, sweet sounds from her mouth.

Her eyes flutter open. You inadvertently stare just a bit too close at her, momentarily startled.

_What am I doing?_

She blinks. “Milady, is there something --”

The both of you have a journey tomorrow, you tell her, inadvertently cutting her off. You close the tin of ointment with a bit too much force. It would be best if the both of you settle down for the night as soon as possible.

* * *

Something rouses you to partial consciousness at some point during the night, despite how sweetly your fatigue entreats you to release yourself from wakefulness. Perhaps it is the absence of Belle, whose arms had been so tightly wrapped around you beforehand. Perhaps it is the quiet that has fallen upon the tavern, its presence wholly unnerving. Belle’s belongings have yet to be moved from where she had placed them.

The door is slightly ajar. A moment allows you to perceive soft, nearly inaudible steps somewhere beyond the threshold. 

* * *

While the _noblesse d'épée_ are not renowned for high society soirees or other fanciful celebrations, it would be false for you to claim that you’ve never had a taste of it. Coriander perfume was popular amongst the high-ranked noblewomen, if you remember correctly. Coriander perfume, powder, and painted beauty marks and mouths. The slightest whiff of high quality perfume could make one fall madly in love, according to the maids’ gossip. Where rose or lavender perfume could perhaps be appropriate for an afternoon outing or tea party, perfume made from a coriander flower can only be considered the height of sensuality. Too high of a concentration may lead to illness in humans, but when has that truly stopped anyone from lustful hedonism?

And so you are almost certain that the establishment before you is none other than a high society pleasure house. The shape of a scorpion welded into the sign, the intoxicating scent, the faint sounds of merriment within its walls -- yes, you’re quite sure that this is the correct place.

“Milady,” Belle begins, “I do believe we’ve made a wrong turn.”

Beelzebub did mention that this Asmodeus spent most of his days in a pleasure house. If this is truly a verifiable lead, then you’ve got no time to lose.

She sighs. “Yes, but -- ah, wait for me!”

The scent of coriander nearly overwhelms you the moment you enter, nearly forcing you to gag. Then there is the sight of that same scorpion, the symbol so gaily and bounteously strewn about the entrance hall, and you cannot help wonder at its significance. If there even is significance in regards to the symbol, that is. It is embroidered onto rosy tapestries, carved into statues, and bestowed upon various paintings. It is meticulously needled into the uniforms of the beautiful men and women that hurry to and fro, their trade clearly in high demand. It is dyed into expensive silks that adorn the walls. And when you turn to regard the man that stands behind the counter, you cannot help but --

Your face burns with an unprecedented, surely obvious heat. You do your best to guard Belle’s vision from such an impure sight.

The rather pretty man only offers you a wolfish smile. “Looks to me like you’ve not been here before,” he remarks. “Got anything in mind that you’re looking to book? I assure you, dear customer, we’ve got every giver of pleasure that’ll suit your fancy. Are you looking for a strapping young lad or lass to fulfill your wildest fantasies? Someone who’ll dominate you in both pain and pleasure? Or are you looking for one you can lead around with a whip, perhaps?”

There will be absolutely no need for that, you tell him, fighting back a stammer. You are looking for someone, but you will have no need for his services if said person is not here.

“Picky, I see!” He draws a bound notebook from beneath the counter, cracking it open to a page. “Have you a name?”

Asmodeus, you respond.

A boisterous laugh erupts from his mouth. “You’re much more wild than I would have ever expected, young miss! If you crave that sort of thrill, then you’ve most certainly come to the right place,” he jests. The man wipes a tear from his eye before beginning to flip through the pages, a finger tracing the names that must be written within. “Oh, but do forgive me, it seems that -- oh! No, you’ve come just at the right time. He should be finishing up right this moment.”

You clap your hands together. That’s wonderful, really. In that case, you’ll --

“And what about you, little miss? It wouldn’t be good for only one of you to come out satisfied, I think.”

“I think I would be quite alright with that,” Belle answers stiffly. “I would like to only accompany mil -- my friend to her … appointment.”

The man winks. “No need to be so shy.”

“I’m not --”

“And here I was, wondering when a new plaything was to be sent up to me.” The voice rings as clear as a bell, sweet and melodious in tone. You glance upwards to catch a glimpse of a painted silk and glittering gems, the bearer of such adornments rushing down the stairs. “Honestly, Piers, I thought you knew better!”

You have little time to blink before the whirlwind of silk and jewels pulls you close. That unbearable heat mars your visage once more, and you do your best to force out some sort of greeting. A curled, blonde lock kisses your cheek, his golden eyes gaze upon you with pure curiosity, his slender fingers wrap around your hands with a gentle earnestness -- and yet you cannot help but feel embarrassed. How could this person be so comfortable with such public, intimate contact?

Thankfully, it lasts only for a moment. Belle places her hand on the wrist of whom you presume to be Asmodeus, frowning.

“‘Twould be appreciated if you unhanded her.”

Asmodeus returns her frown with one of his own, although seems to be more a pout. “Well, I suppose it would make little sense for a darling such as yourself to be unaccompanied,” he says to you. He turns to the man behind the counter with that same presumptuous expression. “Two private sessions, if you will. Make sure to have another room ready.”

“Aye.”

Belle wrinkles her nose. “I asked for -- no, I demand that --”

You are whisked away before Belle can even hope to finish her statement.

* * *

Asmodeus traces the scars of your palm in the privacy of a sitting room a short while later, the fascination written on his face. You can’t bring yourself to believe that it is false -- not completely, anyway. The collection of tea and pastries on the table before you is completely ignored in favor of his supposed admiration of your hands, the scent more tantalizing than any promise of carnal pleasure, but you find that you are a bit too polite to deny him. His gaze lingers on your ruined hands. Yours lingers on two especially perfect custard tarts.

“Are you a swordswoman?” he inquires, turning your hands this way and that. “I’ve had quite a few customers of the knightly persuasion -- but their hands are not as beautiful as yours, needless to say.”

You hesitate. You were a swordswoman, once upon a time, but perhaps you are not one anymore.

“But your youth is in full bloom!” he exclaims. “Surely there must be some sort of future before you in such a profession. Wars and battles do come and go, do they not? I dare say, a life of honor and glory is much more fulfilling than that of a trodden-upon peasant.”

You suppose that it is, you tell him. Asmodeus only responds with that saccharine, well-practiced smile.

 _There’s someone who would be much more suited for this, but he’s in the capital for some business at the moment,_ Beelzebub had said after the meal. A map had been laid out before you, and he had made quick work of marking it in several places. _These people are … notable. Dangerous. If you had any other choice, I would not recommend this to you._

If you had waited a day longer, you imagine that the guildmaster would have more valuable information other than leads regarding your father’s murder. Then again, if you had waited a day longer, you’re not sure if the opportunity to seize such information would have arisen in the first place. And so he had given you a parcel of information, a shortsword, and a considerable amount of food for the journey -- all out of the goodness of his heart, he had proclaimed. All in an act of goodwill. All in exchange for one simple favor, which he had ascertained to be essential to your quest.

 _Protect your companion,_ he had said. _Swear upon that, and the guild will be indebted to you forevermore._

A single finger tips up the bottom of your chin, and you blink to see a strangely concerned Asmodeus. Unlike most of his other gestures and expressions, his concern appears to be clearly genuine.

“Is something the matter, my sweet?” he asks, pouting. “You look troubled.”

It’s nothing, really. You tell him that you only worry that you’ve taken up a bit too much of his time. Hasn’t it been an hour since the both of you entered this sitting room? You should return to your companion before she begins to wonder if you’ve abandoned her.

Asmodeus hums. “You are right, my dear sweetling. It has been nearly an hour, has it not?”

However, while all your attempts to reroute the conversation towards your quest have been largely unsuccessful, this may be your only opportunity to question him while he is alone. You and Belle have a limited amount of silver, after all. You pluck a custard tart from the table while you still have the chance, doing your best to feign lightheartedness. There’s little other pleasures in the world aside from good company and refreshments, you tell him. Perhaps your companion can wait for a bit longer.

“Perhaps she can,” he echoes, watching you as you take a bite of the tart. The rich, sweet, and intoxicating confection is just as satisfying as it had expected it to be. “It would seem that my assumption was correct. You do have quite the constitution -- as expected for a swordswoman.”

Constitution? You can’t help but laugh a bit at the ridiculousness of the statement. How could eating a custard tart shed light on anything regarding your constitution?

“Well, they’re all poisoned, my dear.”

You choke. The custard tart slips from your fingers.

Asmodeus only offers you that same saccharine smile when you stand, your hand reaching for the shortsword hidden beneath your gown. “Impressive, wouldn’t you agree? So difficult to taste, so slow to encroach upon the senses, and so easy to mask with perfume. If I had known about that little sweet tooth of yours, I would have prepared more.” He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “But alas, one cannot be prepared for everything.”

A paralytic poison, you realize. It is only when you stand that you realize just how numb your extremities have gotten. You draw your shortsword before you, preparing to strike.

“Oh, it won’t kill you. What would be the fun in that?” He eyes the pastries with a nonchalant gaze, still seated. “I usually reserve poison of this caliber for those of higher nobility, but -- well, let’s just say that the bounty for your head is a bit too tempting to ignore.”

You demand to know what it is that he knows about the murder of your father. You have traveled a considerable amount to reach this place. If he knows of your bounty, then surely he should be connected to his assassin somehow.

He scoffs. “Honestly, you’re more naive than I thought. News travels rather quickly in the underground, I’ll have you know.”

Your hand trembles as it continues to grow more numb, but you will not submit. It is clear that he expects you to be unable to defend yourself in a short while. You intend to prove him wrong -- even if that means attacking a man who is technically unarmed and less fortuitous than you. One way or another, you will have your answers.

The door of the sitting room all but splinters open behind you, drawing both Asmodeus’ attention and yours.

“Milady!” cries Belle. The blood on her clothing is disconcerting, regardless of whether they are hers or not, but it is the desperation written on her face that gives you pause. “Partake not of the --”

“You’re quite late, but I expected no less from someone as slothful as you. The very avatar of sloth, I dare say.”

 _Move._ You try to force your limbs out of its lifeless state, your condition worsening by the second. _You need to move._

She grits her teeth. “Step away from milady.”

“Milady? My, you’ve certainly changed a lot, haven’t you?” His singsong words are nothing less than mocking. “What will you do if I refuse? Do unto me as I’ve done unto her? Do try not to make such an expression -- you’ll end up ruining that pretty little face of yours. As lazy as a beast of burden, and yet you’re still so easy to rile up. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“Step away. Now.”

“Or?”

_Move, damn you. Move!_

A warmth presses itself against your lips, accompanied by the scent of coriander perfume and rosewater. A blond lock caresses your cheek, a pair of slender fingers holding your chin in place, and pure, unadulterated mischief burns in his golden gaze. You hadn’t even realized that he had moved.

Then it is gone, and you are left staring at an empty space.

 **“You --”** Belle’s voice shakes, **“you poisonous, despicable harlot of a --”**

An unforeseen lash whips through the air, unparalleled in speed, and you can only watch as it cuts through Belle's gown and the flesh of her thigh. She collapses against the wall with a cry of pain. You realize too late just what the lash has been tipped with. The whip coils back into Asmodeus’ now gloved hands, and you read the movement before he can execute the attack.

_MOVE!_

Asmodeus smiles. “Hearsay truly does you no justice, my dear. Perhaps that bounty of yours wasn’t too high, after all.”

This time, it is your entire body that trembles with effort. Asmodeus’ paralytic poison-tipped whip is wrapped around your shortsword, but you will not allow him to disarm you so easily. A harsh pull nearly hurls him into the table, forcing him to temporarily relinquish his attack. You use the time to place yourself between him and Belle.

It won’t be long until you completely succumb to the poison. The haughtiness in his expression tells you that he knows this all too well.

* * *

_You are fighting [Asmodeus, the Courtesan]._

**Objective: Avoid Asmodeus’ attacks and disarm him. Attack speed has been reduced by 30%. If you or Belle become completely paralyzed, you will automatically lose the battle.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this! Feel free to leave a comment, if you would like.


End file.
